


Clean Living

by Infie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-29
Updated: 2006-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infie/pseuds/Infie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unhappy evening in an unhappy bar leads Dean to the brink of uncomfortable realisations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean Living

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended as a tidy little smutfic that would get my mind off of Dean - but the man just refused to co-operate! Can you imagine? A guy, refusing sex? But he did... and so I ended up instead with this, which I think I like a lot more. Please feel free to tell me if you like it too (or, for that matter, if you don't).
> 
> Winner, 2007 SNFA Awards, Round 7  
> [](http://pics.livejournal.com/infiticus/pic/000266yx/)  
> 

It was a depressed night in an even more depressed bar. This one was somewhere south of Tahoe, but he'd lost track of the details somewhere around the state line. Had they zigged, or had they zagged?  


Sam would know, but he was slumped across the booth, so tired he'd fallen asleep sitting up, crumpled against the wall and propped up only by the stiffness of the clothes they hadn't had a chance to change in three days. He never ceased to be amazed at how young Sam looked when he was asleep, or the way his mouth always gaped open that little bit. Perfect for inserting spoons... or all sorts of other embarrasing artifacts.  


"Damned demons." Dean picked up his beer and took a long swig, resisting the urge to kick his brother awake so he'd at least have some form of company. Hell - after the three weeks they'd just had, all he really wanted was a warm shower and a hot babe... not necessarily in that order. In fact, both at once sounded just about right. At least they'd finally found the right mix of hallowed ground and white hot phosphorus to return the demon to its smelly dark corner of hell... as soon as they caught back up to it. Unfortunately, he knew it would take another hour at least for the remnants of that last adrenaline rush to leave his system. Til that happened, he was stuck being awake. Unlike his ungrateful wretch of a brother. Sam snorted in his sleep and Dean glared at him halfheartedly, lacking the energy to even be properly irritated.  


"Excuse me. Is this seat taken?"  


Dean half-turned in his seat, his neck too sore to allow him to just glance over his shoulder. A snarled answer died on his lips.  


The woman standing just behind him wasn't beautiful. Mink dark hair fell in loose waves around an oval face. The woman's nose was a little too large, her lips a little too wide for true beauty. Dark brows arched delicately over eyes that glinted gray, and a confident smile graced full lips. No, she wasn't beautiful... but she was _arresting_. And he knew a thing or two about being arrested.  


Dean closed his mouth with a snap, gestured at the open space beside Sam.  


The woman smiled wider and slid into the seat beside him, hip nudging his insistently until he moved over to give her room. Still, she crowded him, just a little, her thigh a long line of heat against his.  


Dean turned in the booth until his back was wedged between the seatback and the wall and he could face his companion without craning his neck. Her leg pressed against his right shin where he'd curled it onto the seat. She picked up his beer bottle and lazily raised it to her lips.  


"Who *are* you?" He decided to get straight to the point, rather than make the joke about having some communicable disease that automatically came to his mind on seeing her pick up his drink. After all, he could end up getting laid out of this. Seemed stupid to ruin his chances for a quick laugh. She probably wouldn't even think it was funny anyway.  


"My name is Lily," she replied, her voice a smooth contralto that made his skin shiver just a little. She gave him a sideways glance under lowered lashes, mouth a faint curve in the soft lighting. He had a sudden image of those pouting lips encircling something a lot more pleasurable than his beer bottle. The flush of heat had him shifting his hips to ease the stretch of denim over his lap. She smiled a little wider as if she'd noticed his discomfort. For a long moment he balanced precariously between pissed off and aroused. Unsurprisingly, horny won. It was a closer battle than he liked to admit.  


Damn. He _was_ tired.  


"Help yourself to a drink," he said drily.  


She raised an eyebrow, carefully replaced the bottle on the table. "I'd rather dance," she smiled slowly as the music from the jukebox changed to a lazy beat.  


"I do not dance." It was not open to debate.  


She tilted her head and regarded him a moment, then slewed her eyes to Sam. One long, slow perusal of his brother later, she rose and leaned over the table, placing her hand against Sam's wrist. He jerked awake, blinking rapidly and automatically reaching under his jacket for the gun they'd left in the car. "Wha...?"  


"Dance with me," she half-requested, half ordered, tugging on his captive wrist. Sam frowned at her, then shook his head to clear it and stood a little unsteadily.  


"Uh..." He allowed himself to be pulled from behind the table, shooting Dean a look that clearly said "wtf?"  


Dean was wondering that himself. Who the hell was this woman? She was certainly direct. He caught himself tracing the long line of her legs with his gaze when it snagged at the fine curve of her ass. She plastered herself against Sam from chest to toe. Sam no longer looked confused. Now he just looked happy to be there, dropping one hand to her hip, turning with the music.  


As they turned, Lily's face came back into view. She was staring at Dean, openly challenging. Another step to the side, and he saw she was trailing a hand along the back of Sam's neck. Her grey eyes never left Dean's.  


Direct, and hot.  


Without really meaning to, Dean found himself on his feet, pulling Lily gently away from his brother and into his own arms. Sam simply shrugged, flapped a tired hand in his direction and returned to his place in the booth, once more wedging himself into the corner and returning to sleep.  


"I thought you said you don't dance," she gave that sultry smile again. It made things tighten, low in his belly.  


"We aren't dancing," Dean pointed out. His feet were planted solidly to hold the slight lean of her weight as he tucked her against him. "I don't think you have any interest in dancing, anyway."  


"Well, you are certainly right there." A soft husky drawl muttered behind him. A small, delicate hand tapped Lily imperiously on the shoulder. "May I cut in?" The steel in that gentle accent was unmistakeable.  


Lily heaved a sigh and stepped back from Dean, releasing him reluctantly. "Murphy."  


"Seems so." The voice continued brightly, underlying thread of command coming through loud and clear. "Now, you wouldn't want me to call Joe to come and get you, would you darlin'? I can do that for you if you want."  


At the threat, Lily rapidly stepped the rest of the way away from him, finally exposing Murphy.  


Compared to Lily she was tiny; couldn't have been taller than five foot one. Blonde hair, pale skin, whiskey eyes and a loose sunny-yellow sweatshirt, she stood with her fists cocked on her jean-clad hips and glared at Lily with a combination of affection and irritation. "Mr. Lily," she said as an aside to Dean. It took him a moment to realise she meant Joe. He hurriedly took a step back. The blonde dynamo reached out without looking and gripped the flap of his jacket. "You stay," she said.  


Dean took another step away, gently disengaging her grasp. "Ask nicely," he ventured. This situation was just getting too weird, too fast. Lily spun on her heel and stalked away, dress swinging with each step. Dean watched her go, a sneaking little tendril of regret snaking through him. She really did have a fine a....  


Murphy (what kind of name was Murphy, anyway?) punched him lightly in the arm before stepping against him and forcibly starting him moving to the music. His hands lifted to encircle her automatically.  


He stared down into the heart-shaped face tilted up at him. "I don't dance," he told her firmly.  


She shrugged. "That's what I call what we're doing," she answered equably. When Dean attempted to set his feet and stop she adroitly tripped him and started him moving again. She laughed at the look on his face. "See? You do dance." Her curves, hidden by the shapeless sweater but undeniable now that they were pressed up against him in all the right places. Her nose wrinkled, then she grinned. "And you smell, too."  


It surprised a laugh out of him, a genuine one. It had been a long, long time since he'd just laughed. He saw Sam start awake from the corner of his eye, saw the look of astonishment on his brother's face as he took in the sight of Dean *dancing*. A broad grin flashed across Sam's face and Dean groaned at the thought of the ribbing he was going to take for this. Sam's eyes grew wider when Murphy swayed around into his line of sight. Dean supposed she wasn't really his usual type, since he typically went more for collegiate. This woman was young, somewhere between him and Sam in age, but was definitely *not* a co-ed.  


Murphy followed his gaze. "He's awake." There was a slight lilt of question in her voice. He wasn't sure about how she managed to convey intent without changing the even cadence of the soft southern accent, but she did. He found himself answering before he finished the thought.  


"My brother won't be awake for long," he said. "It's been a tough month."  


Murphy's light brown eyes searched his for a long moment, clearly wanting to ask for more detail but equally clearly deciding against it. "You need a shower. Wanna borrow mine?" She asked - no - demanded. She looked as surprised by the question as he was, but her chin firmed even as he opened his mouth to decline. He paused, assessing the resolve and banked heat in her face, then nodded slowly.  


"I think I really do."  


Murphy stopped dancing as the music quit, sliding a hand down his arm to take his hand in a warm grip. "Then follow me."  


Dean pulled back, looked over at Sam's lolling head. "Does that shower come with a couch for my brother?" It would kill him if she said no. That shower sounded like heaven.  


Murphy's lips curved into a smile as she followed his gaze. "Yeah, of course. Bring him along."  


Dean shook Sam awake, dragging his half-comatose brother to his feet. "C'mon. Time to find you a couch, Sammy." Sam scrubbed both hands over his face, then nodded and gestured for them to lead the way.  


Dean wasn't really surprised when Murphy led them to a door that led above the bar instead of outside. The stairs were narrow but well lit, and the apartment at the top of them was comfortable and tidy. Sam headed immediately to the three-seater couch, sprawling inelegantly on it. It was still too short for his full length and he twisted a couple of times before propping one foot over the end and planting the other on the floor. He threw his arm over his eyes. "Thanks, ma'am," he said without looking, "Goodnight."  


"Sweet dreams, Sam," she answered automatically in her husky drawl. At that Sam raised his arm and took the time to look at her properly.  


"Thank you," he said again, shot his brother an unreadable look, and returned his arm to blocking the light.  


Dean shrugged, touched Murphy on the arm. "You mentioned a shower?" He gave her his absolute best pleading look. She grinned crookedly in response.  


"This way."  


The bathroom was small but clean. Murphy preceeded him, reached into the cabinet over the toilet and pulled out an extra large towel. It was the same colour as her sweatshirt; a bright sunshine yellow. She handed it over and slipped past him to get to the door. The room was skinny enough that she had to slide against him, full body. He took a deep breath. The scent of vanilla and warm woman slammed into him like a freight train. He went rigid. She noticed the change, looked up at him quizzically. He smiled at her tightly.  


"Thanks," he said, waving the towel with one hand. "I really appreciate this. Can't stand myself right now."  


The look on her face was eloquent, and she left the room. He closed the door behind her, placed one hand against the doorframe, and leaned against it heavily. He heaved a sigh and turned to the shower, turning on the water and rapidly stripping off his clothes while the temperature rose. He clicked the valve and stepped under the spray.  


The shower was clean, and the water ran hot from the multi-speed showerhead. Hot enough to make his skin shiver in automatic protest against the almost-scald when it first struck his shoulders. He gave a short, convulsive shudder then ducked his head under the pulsing flow. The water drummed against his scalp, then over his traps as he leaned further forward, planting his feet and letting his forehead rest against crossed arms braced against the wall. He closed his eyes and just let the heat bathe over him, top to bottom.  


Five long, delicious minutes later he pushed upright, taking a deep breath, enjoying the sensation of the moist air burrowing deep into his chest. It felt great, and so did the relaxation that came with the slow, even exhale. His breath made the steam swirl, and he gave a half-laugh. Damn, this was exactly what he had needed.  


A quick look around revealed soap and shampoo; no-nonsense stuff he could use without getting ribbed by Sam for smelling like a girl. Not that he wasn't already in for lots of taunting for the dance. He shook his head silently and lathered up with the shampoo. He'd just have to think of something to turn the tables. Shouldn't be too hard. Sam really did make it all too easy, most of the time. He grinned, then grimaced as a wayward tendril of soapy water hit his mouth.  


"Pthah!" Yuck.  


He took the bar of soap, ran it across shoulders and chest. A sudden spike of pain had him hissing. He looked down, wincing at the dark bruises staining his side just below his left nipple, reaching to the top of his hip. Damn. He'd be feeling that one tomorrow, though he really couldn't remember how exactly he'd gotten it. In their most recent encounter the demon had been unexpectedly physical - usually they would just pin him with their psychic mojo and beat the hell out of him metaphysically. This one on the other hand had pinned him to the wall with a very *physical* claw around his throat and proceeded to beat the hell out of him with an equally physical baseball bat.  


No wonder he'd never liked baseball.  


He washed the area gently, finding several other bruises and even a couple of scrapes and cuts he hadn't known about. Then he put the showerhead on the most pounding setting he could find and just stood under the pulses til the water started to run cool. He reached down, turned off the water.  


Damn, it felt good to feel clean. Clean and ... just, clean.  


The towel was a good one, large and thirsty, kind of the way that towels got in the big hotels after being washed so many times that the stain guard was all gone. Those towels, they'd have you dry in seconds the way they'd pull the water off your skin. He ran it over his face an extra couple of times, just breathing in the scent of real laundry soap. How long had it been since they'd been back home? The house he and Dad had shared? Had it really been a year? A year of motels. A year of chasing.  


Maybe, more accurately, a year of running.  


No wonder something like laundry soap was making him nostalgic.  


He wrapped the towel around his waist, slicked wet hair back from his face. A quick glance at the mirror showed him nothing but fog. He looked down at his clothes, wrinkled his nose. Evidently he hadn't really been thinking very clearly.  


Well, damn.  


He'd discarded the sweat and blood stained tshirt, had pulled the minutely cleaner burgundy dress shirt on and was reaching with truly unhappy reluctance for his jeans when Murphy knocked. He checked the status of the towel wrapped around his hips, then opened the door.  


She was carrying a small pile of clothes, looking tentative. "I thought you might need some clean..." She looked up from the clothes, and her breath caught in her throat.  


"Oh my god, thank you." Dean's accent thickened with his complete appreciation and he unselfconsciously stripped the offending dress shirt back off, not even caring at the button that popped loose. He took the small mound of clothes from her. A crisp white dress shirt, white T-shirt and light blue jeans comprised the offering.  


"You're welcome," she replied. It was the throatiness of her response that caught his attention, and he looked up to see her staring at the bruise on his ribs. "Wow, that must really hurt." She extended a tentative hand, tracing her fingers lightly over the discolouration.  


Dean sucked in his breath. That gentle touch sparked heat racing through him, centering at his groin. Suddenly all he could think of was the other half of that 'heaven' equation. Maybe the 'hot babe' part was standing right here. Just one piece left. Was she willing?  


Murphy stepped closer, flattening her hand against the swell of his side. She leaned into him, not quite touching, her eyes fastened on his. He didn't know exactly what she read in his face, but she suddenly smiled and did something he never expected.  


She licked him.  


A tiny rivulet of water had snaked down from his hair and traced its way over his collarbone to his chest, and she licked it off his skin like it was wine.  


Dean's breath left him in a rush. His knees weakened, his lips parted, his eyes closed involuntarily at the incredible sensation. He moaned. She pulled back. Immediately his eyes snapped back open. Her smile had faded. She licked her lips.  


"Is that a yes, then?"  


It took a moment for her words to register. She had to be kidding. Was that a yes? Was the Pope catholic? She bit her lip, and he realised that she was nervous. He blinked.  


"Hell yes, that was a yes," he growled. There was a quick flicker of relief in her eyes before she stepped fully against him, hard and reached for the back of his neck with both hands. He dropped the soft pile of clothes and met her half-way.  


Her mouth was hot, her lips soft and parted against his. His hands fell to her hips , slid across the swell of her back to pull her tighter against him. The friction of her clothes on his skin was a sweet torture, taunting him with the satiny texture he was sure lay just beneath. Slanting his mouth harder over hers, he stroked his tongue gently against her lip. The exquisite sensation, almost a tickle, made him gasp a little. Her hands flexed against his sides. The sudden pressure against the bruise on his left had him gasping again, in pain this time.  


Immediately she stepped back, wincing in sympathy. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."  


Dean pressed his flattened hand to his side, curling just a little. "I know. Just ... just give me a second." He ventured a smile, was rewarded with one in return. "Believe me, it's still yes."  


Her grin widened, and she bent to scoop up the clothes, turning away and walking down the hallway toward a door he assumed was her room. He leaned against the wall, watched the sway of her hips and ass as she walked away. She shot him a look over her shoulder, arched an eyebrow as she caught him checking her out. "Coming?"  


"Not yet," Dean muttered under his breath, careful not to let her hear. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion and he smiled crookedly. She disappeared into the doorway.  


Dean paused at the opening to the living room, checking one last time on Sam. He was sprawled over the sofa. Murphy had evidently been busy while he was in the shower; Sam's boots were off, he had a pillow, and a light blanket covered most of the long length of his body. A splinter of light from the uncovered window bathed his face. Once again, Dean marvelled at how very young Sam looked when he was asleep.  


To be fair, he looked pretty young awake too.  


A crooked grin curved his lips as he turned away. The doorway to Murphy's room beckoned, as did the woman herself. Sam was fine... it was time to get some fine for himself. Holding the towel in place, he headed for the rectangle of light.  


Murphy's room was surprisingly feminine compared to the rest of the apartment. The walls were cream with stenciled gardens, and her bedcovers were a cream and brown floral print. Murphy stood beside the bed, turned down the light to a soft yellow glow as he entered. She'd shed the sweater, leaving her in a loose white tshirt and her jeans. Most of the room fell into shadow, and it really was like being in a garden at night. A garden with a lamp; but a garden nonetheless.  


He closed the space between them with a single long step. The towel fell to the ground forgotten as he pulled her against his chest. She tilted her chin up, accepting his kiss eagerly. Her hands ran over his shoulders, down his sides, caressed hid flanks with gentle touches. He fisted his hands in the cloth of her shirt, pulled her tighter. Her jean-clad thighs were rough against his bare skin. It felt wonderful. His lips slid from her mouth to the crease of her neck and shoulder, biting just a little. She shuddered against him, moaning out loud.  


Dean sat down on the bed, his fingers going to the fastening of her pants. She helped him fumblingly, finally managing the button and zipper. He buried his face against the hot skin of her abdomen, nipping lightly at the rounded softness he found there. She half laughed and pushed him away long enough to strip out of her jeans. As soon as she stood, he pulled her into the v of his legs, bringing her head down for another long, drugging kiss.  


She curled her arms around his neck, lifting first one leg and then the other with slow deliberation to straddle his legs. His hands found her hips. He wrapped both arms around her until he could feel her the length of his torso, from shoulders to hips.  


He opened his eyes with an effort, pulled away until he could look full in her face. Her expression mirrored his; lips parted slightly, eyes half-lidded, glinting with heat. His breath came in short pants. "Say my name," he demanded gently.  


One eyebrow quirked in surprise, and she smiled at him, licking a long line up the column of his throat. His arms tightened. "What?"  


"Say my name." Suddenly it was all important. He needed to hear it, needed to hear his name in that lovely, husky voice.  


She laughed throatily, cupping his face in her hands and kissing away his surprise lingeringly. "I would, really, I would. But I have no idea what it is."  


"Dean." Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with desire and laughter. "My name is Dean."  


"Dean," she agreed, finding his mouth with hers. She breathed it against his lips. "Dean."  


A deep, shuddering breath racked his body. He could feel every ache, every bruise, every scrape as if he were discovering them for the first time. Every step, every mile under the Impala's tires, every inch of the last year was writ large on his skin. He buried his face against the curve of her neck, lifting his fists to clench in her hair.  


She slowed, her hands changing from eager and urgent to something much softer, more comforting. He just held her close and breathed in and out, focussing utterly on the smell and texture of her hair. It smelled fresh and clean, of the shampoo in the shower, and it felt as soft as Sam's plush teddy bear, the one he'd dragged around for years. Dean had lost count of the number of places he'd been forced to spend hours hunting for that damned bear. In retrospect, it was likely good practice for his current job.  


A pretty smell. A pretty feel. It made his stomach hurt.  


Murphy was stroking his back now, long glides of her hands over his shoulders and down the muscles of his spine. Behind closed eyes, a long stream of hunts played out. Dark scenes, dark thoughts, dark endings. His throat tightened. Murphy's hands continued their slow slide over his skin.  


"Are you all right?" She asked, voice kind. He took a deep breath, leaned back and looked at her.  


"I'm sorry," he said simply.  


She raised a hand to his cheek, stroking her thumb over the curve of his eyebrow. A smile lit her eyes. "Nothing to be sorry for," she said. "I could use the company to sleep, if you like."  


Dean nodded slowly. He didn't even have words for the churning in his gut. Murphy moved back, turned back the blanket on the bed, and gestured for him to climb in. She left the room.  


A minute later she'd returned. Wordlessly she joined him in the bed, turned off the light, and curled up beside him, nestled against his injured side. One arm rested over his chest, and one leg slid over his hip to lie along the length of his. He could feel the swell of her breasts against his ribs, the tickle of her hair against his chin as she rested her head against his shoulder. He could feel her heartbeat regular against his side.  


The roiling in his gut quieted as he focussed on that steady rhythm. His eyes closed. Breathing in sync, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Obscurely, he felt safe.  


Sleep rolled over him in a welcome wave of oblivion.  


* * *

  


He awoke to sunlight bathing his face. He was on his stomach, left leg bent beside him, hands under his pillow. There was a comforting weight against his right side. His fingers groped under the pillow reflexively. There was nothing there, and that fact brought him fully aware faster than anything short of a full frontal attack would have. His knife was missing.  


A quick glance reminded him where he was, and he breathed out a silent sigh of relief. A second look showed him Murphy's sprawled beside him, and he managed to slide out of bed without waking her. He padded softly through the room, picking up the towel and replacing it around his hips as he left the room. A quick check into the still-dark living room showed him Sam, now in a truly uncomfortable looking position on his stomach, twisted awkwardly around a fluffy pillow. As he watched, Sam flopped over onto his back instead, crossing his feet at the ankle and snuggling his cheek deeper against the pillow. He sank back into sleep.  


Another two steps brought him to the kitchen. The clean clothes Murphy had offered were neatly folded on the table; the mound of his dirty ones placed in a large plastic bag piled on the chair, peeking out of the bag's mouth. He stared at them, the pain in his gut returning. Dark burgundy dress shirt, sweat and blood-stained charcoal grey T-shirt, grimy jeans, black boxer briefs, stiff black socks. Clean white shirts, soft jeans. The clothes beckoned him.  


His lips tightened. He reached out and grabbed his own clothes, pulling them on with jerky movements, ignoring the underwear entirely and leaving them in the bag. He could always get more in the next town. In the meantime, there was a demon to hunt. Clean clothes could wait. That demon, couldn't.  


He strode into the living room, no longer making an effort to be quiet, and slapped Sam on the shoulder on his way to the door. Sam jerked awake, looked around in alarm then relaxed. "Dude. Ever heard of 'hey Sam, wake up'?"  


"It's time to go. I want to catch this bastard before he hits Mexico." He jammed his feet into his boots, tossed Sam his. "We've got a demon to kill."  


Sam sat up reluctantly, catching the second boot in the air. "Man, I really wanted a shower before we left," he complained half-heartedly.  


Dean finished lacing and stood up. The bite in his stomach had subsided to something more recognizable; hunger for the hunt. "What can I say, man? You snooze, you lose."  


He left without looking back.  


-30-


End file.
